EIDOLON
by Raggdolly
Summary: Shadows and flesh. Humans and monsters. They're the same thing. (Halloween 2015)
1. Chapter 1

Wow. It's been a while.

I wanted to take part in a contest that comes around every year which is right up my alley (Red Eyed Edward - you should read the entries, btw, because they're very good), but I can never get it done in time. If I had completed it before the deadline it would've gone something like this.

I apologize for mistakes. It's not beta'd or pre-read.

Happy Halloween!

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Warnings:  
Violence. Racism. Gore.

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 **EIDOLON**

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 ** _1_**

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It's been one day since the fever began. One day of ice then heat, pain then conquer. One day of violent tremors and foul smells rising from his space within his father's house. He hurls himself from his sweat-drenched bed in the hours before dawn, relieving his stomach of fluid and bile, washes down with water then crawls back under his sheets. When the sun climbs over the trees, he doesn't rise with the vigor of a young man. In fact, he doesn't rise at all.

An older gentleman with a distinguishable curl in his dapple gray and white mustache pulls on his dark tweed overcoat. He looks on at the young man, pressing his forearms into his stomach, sweat pouring from his waxen, pallid skin, and his form hunching as he moans.

He resigns, clamps his wooden box together and pulls it from the bedside table then turns toward the door.

The old man sighs when he's in the well-lit hallway and reaches for the handkerchief in his vest pocket. Sweat had formed on his forehead inside that room, no doubt from the intensity of the flame burning within the magnificent hearth.

A blonde, tailored gentleman, hair cropped short and a fingernail between his teeth, turns, and steps toward the man, shoving his hands inside his trouser pockets. "Well?" he asks.

The old man shakes his head. "Mr. Cullen, I must be frank." He glances back at the room, as though he could see the sick boy through the thick wood, stuffing the now-damp cloth back into his vest pocket. "He exhibits signs of cholera. He's fevering, has pains in his abdomen, vomiting, stool loss..."

"Absurd! Our home isn't riddled with such filth!" Even though his declaration isn't heavy it seems to pound the walls all the same.

"No. No. Nothing of the sort," he says, his voice airy in comparison. "You see, it could have found it's way from anything you eat or drink. I assume you often trade with the townsfolk, buy your vegetables from other farms?"

"Of course."

He nods. "We're finding the sickness can come from poor conditions. The soil or water from such farms could be the answer. It finds its way into the vegetables, you see? If it's not washed then an entire household could become sick. It needn't come from here, but I do recommend you boil your water before drinking... just to be safe, you understand." The old man shakes his head. "I'll have to report this to the town council."

"And what of Edward? What of my son?"

"I've bled him, but he lacks fluid. I mentioned boiled water, but broth is acceptable, anything he can keep on his stomach. Keep it by his bedside so he may drink often. Eventually, the pain will subside and his color will come back... if he's lucky."

Mr. Cullen took a step closer, his brows pinched. "Lucky? Are you saying my son will die?"

"I'm simply saying your son will need tentative care if you can manage."

"Is there nothing more you can do? What have I paid you for if you can not help!?"

"What more do you bloody expect of me? I've bled him and given you firm instructions for his health. If you want miracles and magic, then you've sought the wrong man! It was nice to have met you, Carlisle Cullen. I'll show myself to the door."

The man leaves him standing in the hall with nothing except withdrawn conclusions to his son's fate, and whiskey to help him cope.

Carlisle's gaze becomes hollow. His mind twists with all things he knows not, and begs the question how it could happen to him. He takes care of his family. He has the means to ensure the quality of life is greater than any other inside the meaningless town. They are above the scourge which fastens to those who keep their conditions poorly checked. How could it be so his son is plagued with such feculence? He untucks the flask from his pocket and anchors it to his lips.

And that night, drowning in drink and unmeasurable pain, Carlisle seeks the one who prepares their food and water. He stumbles through the moonlit corridors and staggers down freshly burnished stairs, an oil lamp careening back and forth in one hand, holding on for life and drink in the other.

He finds her sleeping in the humble room tucked away off the kitchen, a mild fire burning in the iron stove, giving sparse light to her slender form and thin mattress. He watches her as she sleeps, her breaths coming easily and finding their way out again as she wraps herself under a quilt belonging to his late wife. The stitching is beginning to come out now, and unlike his quilts and blankets gracing his bed, this piece of patchwork is dirty and ripping. He places the lamp on the floor and allows himself one more swig from his silver flask. The harsh spirit burns his throat, even as he stuffs the container into his trousers.

He wraps his fingers around her warm skin, yanking her from dreams and hollow sanctuary, lifting her from the slumber she desires every night, and when the fog lifts she realizes who has taken hold of her. She smells the alcohol from his breath, and her fingers hook onto his. Her voice is overwrought and the slur of her wild language sets fire and alcohol ablaze in his chest.

Carlisle screams at her, tells her to hush, and when she doesn't he turns and strikes his palm across her face causing her to fall, her weight taking Carlisle down with her to the wooden floor.

She's screaming now, her voice echoing through the silent midnight house. Tears spill over her lower lids, running down to her jaw as she resists him.

"I've given so much," his mouth twists around his words, "and this is how you repay me?! You did this to him!"

He drags her from the house and into the night. The air nearly paralyzes him as he stumbles from the back porch steps, and throws her to the dirt in front of him. Her long, black hair trails after her body as she begins to crawl away. She calls out in a language he can't understand, her voice echoing through the winter trees and some vile part of him becomes aroused at the sight of her pulling away, at the sight of blood spilling from her wounds when he beats her without mercy.

He leaves her there, shaking in death, the last of her life spreading through the dry, needle grass.

"Father?"

Carlisle needn't turn around to know who is there, and his eyes never leave the widening thick of blood as he pulls his whiskey from its home. "Emmett, son, go back inside." His breath escapes him, his chest heaving with fight and excitement.

"What have you done?" Emmett caught sight of her in the silver light, pulling a suspender onto his shoulder and white long johns. His booted feet and the heavy sound they make against wooden porch steps are pronounced in the stillness. Though Emmett is Carlisle's second son he remains the largest.

"What I had to," Carlisle says then takes the final swig from his flask. It sits nicely in his chest while standing in the frigid night. "They think us weak. You can see it in their faces, but we are Cullens. We are not weak, and I will not be made a fool of."

Emmett's brows pinch as he lowers himself to the ground, studying the unfortunate body to catch the wrath of his father's fists.

Carlisle looks up then, his hard stare falling on the three shacks behind the bare, burnt fields. Shadows cling to the posts of the porches, and he can barely make out their silhouettes, but he knows they're there, cowering like dogs. "Do you hear me?!" he screams, straightening his back, clenching his fists by his sides. "This is what happens when you fuck with me! This is what happens when you attempt to harm my sons, my family!"

He swipes a palm across his face, not noticing his fingers are nearly cold as ice. He doesn't concern himself with the wake of blood his fingers left on his forehead, nose, eyes, and cheek, but he wonders, with humor, if the red lines would mean something to _them_.

Emmett lifts the bloody hair from the girl's face to inspect the damage. "We need to bury her. There will be coyotes out there."

"Leave her," Carlisle says, his eyes on the figures half-clinging to the pale face of midnight. "Let them take care of it. Let them get a nice, long look."


	2. Chapter 2

**EIDOLON**

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"There's still a chance he may live."

"But I will not take such a risk," Carlisle says, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Remember, offer anything within reason, and don't trust those savages for a moment. Keep your gun at the ready. Will you not take Emmett with you?"

"He's needed here. Besides, he'll get in the way." His blonde hair falls from behind his ears. He tucks it back again. "It's like you told us, Father: he has his duty and I have mine. Have I ever let you down?"

"No, Jasper. You are my barterer, my ship of gold. You can get them to agree to anything," he praises, then lowers his voice to the mere idea of a whisper. Whiskey still coats his breath from the many hours before. "You're right. Emmett's more apt to give them whatever they wish."

Carlisle releases his son and Jasper steps into the cold air, slipping a rifle's strap over his head, allowing it to hang on his shoulder. Frost sits upon dirt and grass, shining as though made of crystal.

"Beautiful morning, sir," an older man says at the bottom of the front stoop. In his pale hands are reins, fastening a stormy, silver and black steed by his side.

"Yes, Aro. It is." Jasper lifts himself into the saddle. The cold, hard leather is intense against his thighs, and he can smell the thick coat of the animal below him, sweet grain, and hay. Jasper always thought him a fine horse, though stubborn like some people he knows.

The rocks and dirt twist below the horse's hooves as Aro slips the reins over its neck, passing them to Jasper. He gives a curt nod to his father then guides the wayward stallion away from the safety of his home and onto the dead, flat sward leading to a sequence of brick and wooden shops.

The streets are near empty this morning. The frost holds the majority of the township prisoners in their homes, keeping them tucked close to their roaring hearthstones. Jasper's able to maneuver through the dirt streets to the outer corner of town in a matter of moments, where he elopes into the golden, uncivilized land. The trampled turf through the forest is an easy ride, but it's thick with branches hanging low enough to catch his clothes. He begins to regret the decision to wear his first choice in a suit but breathes easily knowing it can be repaired by their tailor.

He doesn't stop, and glances behind him every so often until he reaches the clearing miles from the nearest sophisticated establishment. The breath of the horse leaves a trace of fog swirling behind them for only a second at a time, and Jasper notices then how the frigid air is clawing into his bones as he rides at a full canter.

He can see the smoke ascending from the march of trees beyond this lifeless meadow. He's half-way across when he hears a walloping call in the forest ahead, a call he's heard before; a vocal signal of approaching white men. Perhaps this is a bad idea, arriving unannounced, but he's too close to turn away now. He slows when he smells charring meat and spices, allowing patience and unease to churn his stomach. Black-haired men stand around a fire, their bodies covered in hides and pelts, weapons of bows and spears in hand, though not pointing at him.

A man not brandishing a weapon stands before the others. Recognition hits Jasper forthwith, even though many of them look the same to him, through the few barters and trades he's done with his father involving these people, he knows this man to be 'Sam', the chief's eldest son.

He can still recall Sam's persistence last summer when his love fell from his arms and onto the carriage to be taken to the Cullen's plantation. Even the beloved son of the chief couldn't convince his father to turn Carlisle's head. Debts have to be paid.

Jasper tightens his grip on the reins and dismounts quickly. Sam is feet away, a scowl on his face. This is the closest he's been to these men. Before, he sat in the relatively empty wagon, tending the horses and watching his father negotiate.

Sam's younger than Jasper originally thought. There are no lines around his eyes and mouth. His sleek black hair drapes unhindered over his shoulders to his chest. His square face and sharp cheekbones help sculpt his impressionable appearance, giving Jasper the notion Sam is a capable man, hunter, and warrior, should the need ever arise.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, and Jasper steals a glimpse at the men still around the enthusiastic tinder, imagining how warm it must be to sit near the flames.

"Chief," Jasper says.

Sam's brow pinches and his stare is hard. He holds out his palm, and Jasper understands it means to wait. Sam disappears into a hut covered in dry hide, and Jasper drops the reins, allowing his horse partial freedom for the few moments of business.

Before too long Sam emerges again with an older man, elaborate hide and fur down to his knees. The leather face of the chief appears under his long, bead-adorned hair with a single, black feather erect behind his ear. Another man with a wolf head covering his brow to the nape of his neck follows close behind.

They keep an honorable distance. Instead of an exchange of niceties Jasper skips to the point. "I've come to barter."

The wolf-man, a young, sturdy figure speaks in the native tongue, his eyes on the elder beside him. In turn, he whispers back.

"Winter has been harsh. Our skins and blankets are no more," Wolf says. "No more trade."

"I haven't come for blankets and skins. I need the service of your witchman," Jasper says. "My brother is sick. If not healed soon, he will die. We will give you goods, food, tobacco, chickens, even a weapon if it's your wish. All my family asks is for your witch's power to heal."

Wolf speaks to the chief again and when he has given his answer he replies, "The tobacco our people grow?"

Jasper nods.

The chief's mouth is stiff when he speaks, and so silent it appears words don't form at all, but Wolf hears him clearly. "Chief say this not enough."

"I'm offering you a rifle for Christ's sake! What more do you want?"

"The return of our people."

"I can not give you that! Have you forgotten? You owe us two more summers of work to pay your debt!" Jasper scowls, the tone in his voice turns callous. His eye contact with the chief never fails. "Goods only!"

"Chief say no. Your father's son isn't important, and we have enough tobacco." They begin to turn away.

"Stop!" Jasper pitches forward, his hand reaching for the chief, but before the exploit can be successful Sam wraps his fingers around his hand, pushing Jasper's thumb to his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. Jasper howls and squirms then grunts and heaves when Sam presses a bone edge to the far side of Jasper's throat.

His native speak is so quick and guttural in Jasper's ear, he can barely make out the pattern of words being spoken, but the tone is feral, unhinged as he flattens the sharp blade to his skin. Sam looks to his father, his long hair holding fast to his lips as he exhales, waiting for a sign. Jasper understands the mistake he made the moment before, hissing at the bent position Sam twisted him into. His shoulder skirts the cusp of being broken. The loyalty of the bones in his wrist are being questioned. Jasper holds onto Sam's knife hand, hoping to gain leverage from his excruciating hunch, but this man is an unnatural force. The chief speaks to Sam this time, his calm demeanor strange in such an aggravated situation. Finally, he gestures to Jasper and withdraws toward the hut.

Sam removes the blade, pushing him to the ground. He waves a hand at him, forceful words flying. He points at Jasper's horse, to him, then gesturing to the encampment. When he finishes his angry rant he spits at the ground toward Jasper's feet.

The onslaught drew a crowd, now gathering around them. A storm begins to brew within him. If he attacks Sam he will die on these forsaken grounds, but knowing he has been bested eats away more than the call of death. However, he holds firm.

Jasper's wrist aches, but he pushes himself from the arctic earth and brushes his pants off with his uninjured hand, his rifle slumping over his body until he straightens his back. The chief no longer gives heed to the white man at their camp, but his son takes an exceptional interest in this trespasser. His dark eyes linger longer than Jasper likes, and he doesn't make the mistake of lunging for them again. The sight of them walking away causes his heart to sink, and the hope he holds for his father begins to vanish. He expects him to deliver, and if he fails to do his duty he'll come back with nothing, and Edward will perish.

"My brother is going to die!" Jasper screams without moving his feet.

They don't turn around.

"My brother will die!" he says again. "I will give anything I have!"

They don't stop.

"Goddamn you people! Damn you to hell!"

Just as Wolf and Chief reach the outside of the hut, a figure comes forth. The old Native's dark eyes fall onto Jasper. He's speaking to the chief and nodding his head. He waves his hand toward the sky and points his bowing fingers to the shell-bead ropes hanging from his neck, which appear as though they are causing his back to camber. Jasper knows this man. He's never met him, but this is their witchman. His elaborate beadwork gives him away.

Wolf is walking toward him once more and stops beside Sam. "Tomorrow night," he says, motioning one hand to the sky. "Sacred moon."

"The full moon tomorrow night? Yes."

"Bring him."

"My brother? He will heal him?"

Wolf gives a curt nod.

Hope springs into him again. He's done what his father asked. He remains a golden ship, regardless of how he accomplishes his means. Glee dilutes his earnest face. "What does he want to trade for this service?"

"Tobacco. All."

"Very well." He bows his head enough to show appreciation before finding his horse, now nipping at small patches of shimmering grass. He hoists himself onto his silver mount, yielding to his wrist. Jasper glances back one last time at the encampment he once thought filthy and unwhole but now seems lighter than before, in a way which makes him think of simpler times. He spurs his horse from whence he came. The cold morning the only unchanging facet of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**EIDOLON**

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Emmett dips a cloth into the basin, the water already frigid. He holds the compress to his brother's temples. Droplets pursue one another down his forehead and sink into his glossy, amber hair. His eyes are shut, but he's not sleeping. His expression is constantly changing, twisting with new lines to interpret pain.

"Edward," Emmett says, "you need to sit up and drink something."

Edward shakes his head. "No. I can't keep it."

"You need to try, or Father will come in and force it down."

"Leave me." A tear runs down his cheek. "I'm ready to die."

"Not yet, little brother." Emmett returns the cloth into the white porcelain once again, deciding then to fetch more warm water. "I'll be back."

Downstairs he greets Jasper in the kitchen. "I didn't know you returned."

Jasper looks at him over the smooth, wooden cup he has to his lips. He finishes his water before lowering it. "Yes. Not too long ago."

Emmett pauses. "And? What happened?"

"I accomplished my ends." He eyes the large porcelain bowl in Emmett's sturdy grasp. "And how is the favorite son today?"

"Ready to die."

"Shame."

"Do you think they can be trusted?" Emmett asks.

"No, brother, I don't, but we don't have a say. This is what Father wishes." He reflects for a moment, wondering if he should tell Emmett of the incident with Sam, but he turns away instead. "I need to speak with him."

He climbs the stairs to his father's study. This part of the house always seems quieter to Jasper. The few rooms in this hallway, mostly belonging to his father and mother, when she lived, once brought him great joy. Now they are stark reminders of the past lingering in the dark precipice of his mind. The large window at the end of the hall allows the late morning sun to light up the fineries adorning the walls and small tables; eloquent paintings, urns from the Orient, exquisite draperies exist to tell of a rich life, serving no other purpose except to please the eye. He knocks on his father's door, and his muffled voice rises from behind the thick wood.

Jasper enters, as his father requests him to do, and he finds him bent over his desk, inscribing ink onto parchment. Another large window brightens the room, giving the man adequate light to scribe his writings, no doubt of business. Jasper glances to the left corner, at the grand, stuffed mountain cat his father hunted in his youth. The dead, golden glare of the large cat had frightened him as a child and sometimes it still does. Carlisle Cullen looks up from the parchment, his glasses perched on his nose. "Jasper," he says offering a smile, "what news?"

"It is done. We are to bring Edward tomorrow night."

Carlisle's grin widens, and he's off his chair to congratulate his eldest by patting his shoulder. "I knew you could do it." He advances to the opposite side, freeing the decanter of it's lid and pouring the honeyed, single-malt into two bulging glasses. "What did you promise in exchange?" he asks, handing over one glass to Jasper.

"The remaining tobacco in the storehouse."

Carlisle takes a swallow then stops. "All of it?"

"Yes, Father. All of it."

His back straightens. The pleasing imprint Carlisle leaves in the air turns foul. "That is _not_ within reason."

Jasper tilts the glass to his mouth, consuming the meager sip he's been given. "I didn't have much choice, Father. The chief refused to do business with me because I wouldn't agree to free their people, but the witchman heard our conversation outside and decided to perform the ceremony for all the tobacco. It's either that or your son dies."

Carlisle sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment, savoring the generous pour he allowed himself a moment earlier before finishing the whiskey in his glass with a single raise of his chin. He looks at Jasper when he finishes. "You're right. You made the right choice."

"I placed myself in your position," Jasper says, watching his father circle the desk then lower himself into the chair. "I was there in your stead, and I did what I thought you would. They wanted nothing to do with me from the first moment their eyes set upon me. When the witchman offered his service in exchange for the tobacco, I didn't think twice. It was the only way."

"Winter has broke us," Carlisle says taking a ledger from his drawer and opening it. He finds the inventory page of the bushels which remain in the storehouse and strikes through them with his ink-dipped quill. "I knew it would come to pass one day, but I didn't forsee it being from those savages. Those filthy heathens."

"Perhaps we should keep Edward here. Let us take care of him. He's a strong boy, a fighter. With enough clean water to flush the sickness from his body, he'll pull through. It's been one day. We should give it more time, Father."

Carlisle shakes his head, looking up at Jasper. "No amount of time will cure him here. God is punishing me for the trespasses I've made against him. He's my one reminder of how precious life can be. Remember when he was born, how your mother, bless her soul, fought to birth him?"

Jasper nods, remembering quite well. He remembers her screams from down the hall, and the confusion he felt. His seven-year-old mind couldn't understand the goings-on as women rushed to and fro with hot water and cloth. Sometimes they passed with blood-soaked scraps of white and he knew the new baby his mother passed into the world could only be a monster. Sometimes, he's not sure if he's truly forgiven him. "I remember," Jasper says.

"He's the last piece I have of her, and if I can do for him what I couldn't do for her, then perhaps her death will not have been in vain. We need medicine greater than our own. Magic. Even if it's against God, I will not lose my son."

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"I can't ride," Edward says, pinning his gray cloak against his stomach. They inch down the manor's grand staircase. The movement causing the cramps in his body to pulse.

Emmett and Jasper hold onto his arms, tight against his ribs, keeping him standing. "You're not going to have to," Emmett says. "Father has ordered them to bring the carriage. You'll have an easy way. Only a few more steps to the door and we'll be there."

The sun has nearly set, leaving dark shadows to fall upon the house, but Aro is there, an oil lamp ready to guide them through the young night. Carlisle waits at the bottom, his hands together in front of him, watching his youngest son as he passes from step to step. The black carriage is grand and wide, drawn by two elegant mares of chestnut. Behind are Jasper's and Emmett's horses, for they are made to ride single in the dark and cold.

The raw air stings Edward's face, and he blinks then shuts his eyes to rest. In his seventeen years, he'd thought of how he would die more times than he cared to count.

Either in the moment, or late night wonderings while he waited for sleep to find him, he'd muse on events which had already passed. He'd fallen from a horse when he had but eight summers and the strike on his back when he landed on the ground stole the breath from his chest. He thought death had come for him in that instant, but as he lay there gasping for air the world had swirled around him. His father stole him from where he'd fallen and swaddled him until he could catch the air which had withdrawn as he struck dirt.

And the breath he takes now causes pain, cracking inside his body which he can't place, and it seems as though it's been hurting for so long, torturing him. He knows he's ready if the Lord is willing. A moan gurgles from his throat, and Carlisle, cradling Edward under his arm, says, "Keep your strength, son. We're nearly there."

When the carriage stops Edward smells the smoke from long-burning fires, the cooking of meat. He sees the round huts of the Natives, and their dark faces with lines of black paint under their eyes, on their cheeks, and their mouth.

Jasper and Emmett dismount and assist Edward as he bowls over, huffing and groaning. Carlisle follows, but doesn't linger by the carriage like his sons. He approaches the Indians, dressed in his gray suit which he wears as though it's armor. He gestures back to Aro with an open palm. "I've done what was agreed upon," he says, directing his attention to Chief. Next to him is the Wolf, interpreting as before.

Chief looks on as Aro unloads the bundles of dried tobacco leaves from the large crate tied to the rear of the carriage. He sets it at Carlisle's feet.

"Now will you attend my son?" Carlisle asks.

Chief motions for Edward to follow. Holding out his hand, as if to say he's okay, his brothers release him. They do with slow, precise movements so he may find his balance.

Edward straightens as much as he can and leaves the help behind at the behest of the people who are to save him. Inside, the structure is held firm by a frame of branches sewn together with strips of dried animal hide. Firelight flickers, sending shadows dancing onto the stiff walls. The people lower Edward onto a soft pile of pelts, positioning him so his legs are straight and his arms are by his side.

He doesn't feel any better like this and wants to curl in to relieve the ache more than he wants to please the medicine man.

"Must stay straight," Wolf says to him, positioning his arm again.

Edward groans as a man with many wrinkles and black paint hovers over him, a bone bowl in hand. He smears dark tint onto Edward's cheeks, on his brow, and along his neck. Upon an inhale, the stink of death permeating the air, Edward knows what he paints him with, beyond any question.

Blood.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm sorry this isn't much, but I'm feeling very under the weather today. I can't edit much right now and this seemed a good stopping place before getting into any more meat of the story. (Ha. Not an intended pun.)  
Thank you for the wonderful reviews.

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 **EIDOLON**

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 **4**

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Emmett is sure he'll never forget the sounds of tonight. The medicine man's voice from within the hut, Edward's shouts, the unknown words of chants around the camp. The horrifying symphony it all created together. He'll never forget his father pacing in the pale light away from the activity, nor his brother keeping eyes on Sam as the Native raised his hands to the moon and stomped his feet to vaulted drums. The tribe had seemed to quiver in concert around the great fire as it flickered high into the night. How strange it all sounded, how otherworldly. It had gone for hours. Each time he pulled his thin pocket watch from the front of his waistcoat another hour had ticked by. He began to pray to God for it to end by the third pass of the hand. The silence came when six men carried Edward out on their shoulders, his body unmoving. Emmett remembers the look on his father's face as he ran to them, examining his youngest, frantic, and the firm man he'd always known broke into a helpless child.

Wolf had explained what Edward's body went through, how they had to hold his form with deadening herbs for the Spirits to enter his bones. At this, his father allowed his placated form to take up the entirety of the carriage, even permitting his dirty boots on the upholstery. Emmett had watched from his horse, his stomach an invariable mess of horrible memories from his childhood and his father's anger when he dirtied a carpet inside the house by simply walking on it with soiled boots.

Between the eldest son with a crown of glory, and the youngest with their mother's beautiful looks, Emmett knows he's caught in the middle. A simple, forgotten valley between a mountain and the eternal ocean.

It's early morning when they pull Edward's sheets over him inside the comforts of his lavish suite.

"I'm not sure what they did to him, but I think it worked," Jasper says. "He hasn't been this calm in days."

"Should he still be like that?" Emmett stares down at him, gesturing to his seamlessly lifeless form. His eyes are the only indicator of life when they blink every so often.

"I don't care. Let him lie there. I nearly fell from my horse riding back and I can barely stand now. I'm going to bed," Jasper says and retreats from his brother's room to his own.

Emmett builds a fire to stave off the icy draft from the window, knowing it's what his father would want, and when it's to his satisfaction he leaves, drawing the door behind him and leaving Edward alone with nothing but the flicker of the flames to keep him company.

It may be true, how calm Edward is. True, how the medicine man placated his form from further pain, but a new sickness took its place where cholera once beset his every throe. And in this sickness, Edward can't control his body. He wants to raise his arms, but they don't move. He wants to stretch his legs, but they don't stretch, and when he breathes he's fallen from the horse all over again. He's lain on the ground with the sky above and Hell below, fighting for air to enter his lungs and to bind him to the Earth. There are no words he can say.

No words.

There are no movements he can perform to rid himself of the weight in his limbs and chest. He wonders if this is death.

Could this be the finale? The way his existence will plummet from the small world? He had never imagined a dark room, a lonely blackness pervading his body into oblivion. His chest heaves with hollow air, the struggle unheard except in his head, the exigent fight for life.

Fire sets in his lungs. It crawls to his heart. Without air, he can't call out. His voice, his body, is useless. A fire without a flame, his form is changing. His sculpture is betrayed. His eyes meander the room, the shadows only broken by the silver moonlight from his window and the heated glow from the opposite wall. Obscurity prevails, and when he sees a shadow stretch and block out the small brilliance of light a knowing overcomes him: death isn't far behind.

Edward watches, destitute, as the black form bends a claw around the thick quilt at his feet. He can feel the weight of the creature pulling the sheets from his body, the cold night penetrating into his bones under his unchanged riding clothes.

A shoulder, an irregular head, akin to a broken log, emerge from the end of the bed, and he doesn't know why, but the form, he feels, is smiling. Hell-deep holes are where the eyes should be if it had eyes at all, and yellow teeth stretch from ear to ear. It's not a shadow, but mass. Real, palpable skin which can touch and be touched. It crawls, pulling sheets, quilt, the remaining warmth he felt from the bed. The contest for air, Edward understands, has been a duel with Death.

The dark, heavy creature, its arms longer than Edward's legs, hovers above his body. It's warmth is real, the heat it emits is a black pyre blazing above him. No scream can be found. No words can be spoken as he wishes to call for his brothers, for his father, for anyone who will hear him. Nothing emerges. No force can lift his arms or legs as he screams in his head, gasping, heaving, looking into the oblivion pits of the creature arching above him. It's yellow teeth dip into swords and the erratic struggle becomes mute in Edward's head.

The word forms without effort, the voice an abrasion against any natural sound he's ever heard. It's come from a place of everlasting fire, and he knows it to be the creature inside his head, speaking to him, indicating the nature of his intention.

 _MINE_ , it says.

It's long, torrid, briny fingers enter Edward's mouth, spreading his lips open, stretching them beyond the natural extent any human could possibly face, and the agony is so fierce Edward forgets the incinerating flame in his chest. He forgets mortal bearings, and all his rational thoughts. He is damned to the beyond; a dimple of dark opening to a chasm of woe as the stygian creature burrows into his cavity, boring what was once unspoiled. And the light which used to be the mind of a seventeen-year-old boy tumbles to ash.


	5. Chapter 5

**EIDOLON**

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 **5**

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The body ticks as the previous soul expires. Traces of the boy remain, but they are mere glimpses of who he once was. It emits a hopeful, loving ache only humans and animals possess, gives flickers of a gilded life, then consuming fear begins to settle and die; the last embers of a dying inferno burning its final farewell. As this soul disintegrates, the creature stretches into the remaining mass, but the aspects do not match. He must find his carriage if he's to exist, but the body, fresh with death has not yet consumed the predatory soul. Time will allow him to adhere. So he lies there for endless moments, his soul searching for the eyes and limbs so he may see and function.

Fingers flutter against sheets then clutch the mattress with unnatural force as he pulls himself from the bed. The final breath in the lungs expel and crackle while the creature shivers in the cold. The warmth from the foundation of the mortal already begins to wane, and he knows he must seek the cure of its distress. For cold will freeze it, mar its existence, and reject him from the flesh he possesses.

His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other, the surroundings seen through a milky haze. This young human's body is weak, the muscles, while developed, have never known their potential.

Bare feet find the floor and he stands. The creatures eyes fall upon a silhouette across the room. He startles, baring his teeth. With urgency, he strides to the form, raises his bent fingers and strikes with careless inaccuracy, shattering the reflection. Through the fog and shards, he recognizes it's the same body as the boy he took. He looks closer. His eyes are green as new spring grass. The skin hosting him is ghastly. The masterful fabric adorning his torso seems aureate in the firelight. The full, untamed russet hair is a mess on his head, and the creature reminds himself it does not belong to him. Not yet.

Still, he gives a slow admiration for the specimen he acquired. He understands humankind from a distance. He recognizes their jubilation, the fear, their anger. He's witnessed their mores, their ceremonies, their procreation, births, even their deaths. He's never been so close, this ancient soul, to possess a body within their sweeping coil. Cool, shaking fingers pass over the boy, discovering the square face, firm torso, and thick collection of flesh which he knows to be the pillar for breeding.

He is pleased with all this, but he remembers the teeth are round and dull, suitable for a human, but aberrant to his existence. It's not a matter he can rectify now. The body cools more with every passing moment in the frigid air. He treads to the source of heat inside the space, curling close to the warmth, turning his hands over and inching closer until the flame licks at the edge of the fingertips. This mortal fire bites at the flesh and he pulls away.

This form is delicate. He's on the precipice of surrendering the corpse, leaving it cold, and returning to his slumber in the dark banks of the forest and pyre until a sound, a resonate murmur, as though a drum is being pounded from some distance away clamors inside his head. The rhythm is slow, purposeful, and he lifts himself and reaches out to search for the vibration. He shivers when his fingers touch a curious, wintry node, but he twists and pulls, dividing the barrier from its frame.

He raises his chin in this newfound darkness, searching the air to locate the ripple he feels and hears inside his head. The enveloping cold tremors as his fingers search the pitch dark.

He touches a solid mass, the pale hands of the body and his soul hunting as one for the first time, stretching across the grain, immersing himself and reaching for an aura. He does this over and over again, moving down the dark stretch until a pulse radiates behind another obstruction. His fingers fall onto another cold stud, it's flourishing design barely filling his palm as he twists it to the left and pushes the heavy wood from him. A dying fire beckons the creature inside, and on the flat, soft platform is the cadence he searches for.

This warm, hollow pocket is desirable, and the creature's steps fall silent on the wood beneath him. The pulse exudes from the form under the layers of material, and he can almost hear the pumping of heat through the body underneath. The breaths of this soul are tranquil, unsuspecting of the monster he attracts.

He considers this warmth and how to help himself to it, and finally he lifts the fabric and eases himself into the cocoon, pressing himself against the hot skin of this human who, when he feels the icy flesh against him, pulls away opening his eyes and glances behind him. He protests this embrace.

"Edward, what are you doing in here? Your fingers are ice!"

The creature withdraws momentarily as the human he desires turns onto his back, placing a hand on his face, not bothering to look at him again. "How are you feeling?"

He fastens himself against the human again.

"Stop! You're freezing. Did your fire die?"

The creature mouths the word 'die'. A fascinating term. The man removes the sheets from himself, sitting upright and moving on his bare feet. He is nude until he pulls material over his head to hang along his body. The creature stands, too, and situates himself near the human as he begins to prod the mortal fire, awakening the flames, and when he straightens the creature embraces him, seeking the warmth once more.

"Edward! What are you doing? You're as ice!" the man pushes on the creature, but he is unable to remove him. "Leave me! Go back to your room!"

He struggles, placing his arms between himself and the cold body, but the creature latches, his face flush against the scorching flesh.

"Get off! Get off, I say!"

"Need fire," the thing says in low, breathless clicks. And he thrusts himself onto the human, the weight of his body, the strength of his soul, crushing the man to the floor.

The thing covers him, squeezes the human's wrists with his hands and pins them at his sides. Bones begin to fracture, and a wail escapes the man's throat. The terrible howl in the silent flicker of the night is arousing, and the hard swell of purpose under his skin causes his eyes to widen and the body of Edward, the mind of a demon, gives no liberty to this man. The creature presses his mouth to the contracting flesh under his jaw and receives the salt on his skin, licking, tasting, and knowing the heat he must draw can not be taken by a simple touch. It is the thrumming from within, the hot cascade inside the meat is what he must consume.

He spreads his lips, opening the divided skin next to his mouth, filling the chasm with the human's neck. When he closes around the flesh it takes little strength to break through.

A river runs from the tear, and the man tries to scream, but the creature fastened to his neck shortens his breath, and he feels he will burst from this abnormal vice. He continues to push, trying to free himself, but there is nothing he can do to pry away. The purchase is too strong as teeth and lips nurse the life from his body.

The heat from this man fills his cold cavity, animates his spirit, and there is such vigor within him he lifts himself from the floor. His eyes begin to clear, adjusting to light and shadow. He watches the human, his eyes on the fire, his mouth opening quickly with a shallow and pointed intake of breath. His jaw closes slowly before he's attempting another flux of air. A rose river flows from his neck and onto the floor. The creature dips his fingers in the surge and touches it to his tongue. It's already growing cold. He remains by the human until his jaw ceases to tick and his breath expires. He can almost feel the soul depart.

He rolls his head, feeling the movement of the body like he hadn't before, the position of his legs, the stretch in his arms. He steps over the corpse sprawled in front of the fire and continues into the dark once more in search for the heat masked by supple flesh. He doesn't walk far before entering another room, but unlike the last human his eyes are already open, blinking as he sits up to appraise what came through the door.

"Edward?" he asks, his dark hair shielding his eyes, and when he swipes it back he's out of bed and on his bare feet. "What in...?"

He traces the human, mimicking his movements, pacing.

"You've blood on your mouth. Did you cut yourself?" His voice wavers. It's unsteady, fearful, and though this monster cares not for words, one rhythmic sound, and its context, intrigue him as he finds the strum and beat of liquid fire under the skin.

"Blood?" the creature clicks, intaking air.

"Holy Lord, protect me from what trespasses against me," the human says, then continues to mumble words under his breath.

The creature crosses the room and lunges at the man, opening his mouth and fastening under his jaw. The meaty sinew is larger than the previous.

This one has more strength. He tightens his large, hot hands around the creature's arms to shove him away, giving more effort, but not enough to sway the teeth sinking into his neck. His voice finds him and he hollers before succumbing to the weight of his attacker.

The creature drinks him slower, tasting the intense sting of iron as he squeezes it down. The heat melts the piercing cold in his chest with each swill. Every swallow compels a new sense, another awareness, and anchors him closer to the body. A quick breath causes him to pull away, and in the doorway is another, dressed in a long frock, a light flickering above clear liquid in his hand. His blue eyes are penetrating the dark, and his silent observing is giving unrest to the creature.

He must've heard the large one scream.

He removes himself, and rises to his feet, licking his lips, pushing an outline of blood around his wide mouth. His pace is slow and smooth, like that of a human. And though the creature knows he's not fully integrated into this body, it's enough to control its limbs without further mistakes.

"Edward?" the human asks from the opening, though he backs up as the creature nears.

He can feel his pulse through the air and smell the juice under his skin

"What have you done?"

"Blood," he clicks, his mouth opening wide to accommodate the word.

"Blood?"

"Yes," he clicks again, "blood."

His face pinches and his lips turn down. "My son," he cries. A shatter sounds next to him, and a flame ignites then roars to life.

The creature's eyes widen, and he hooks the man over his shoulder and bounds down the stairs away from the scorching flames beginning to spread over the wood. When the creature bursts through the front door, retreating to the lawn, he can see the bloom of destruction through the windows of the white enclosure. The creature allows the man to fall from his perch, sliding from his shoulder and onto the ground with a heavy thud.

He's on his back, eyes wide in the sunless morning and studying the body of his child. "Edward?"

The creature stretches his throat, but he is yet unable to speak. He kneels next to the trembling man. The grass is wet and cold, but his body is made of flame and passion. The boy's brothers awakened the connectors between body and soul, their blood gifting to the creature perception and strength. As he stares into the eyes of the father, the procurer of life, he wonders how he will complete him.

"What are you?!" the father pleads. "What have you done with my son?!"

The creature doesn't answer him. Instead, he inches closer on his fingers as they gouge deeper into the ground. The pulse in the air quickens, a drum against the creatures ears.

"God forgive me," the father closes his eyes. "Elizabeth forgive me."

The creature plunges into his skin, and the father cries, screams, and gurgles when Edward's teeth rip into his flesh.

He wraps his arms around his son's back, clenching onto the gold-threaded waistcoat as the fire takes hold of the structure behind them.

The golden life of the Cullens burns brightly in the early dark, and if anyone saw this they would believe the sun to be dawning in the northland instead of the east. And the creature drinks every last drop of the father until he is nothing except pale flesh, rigid bones, and still skin.

He feels the life in him now, the breath seep into his lungs, the voice crack in his throat as he rises to his feet. His mind is comprehensive and full. He stands, watching the manor snap and hiss under its disastrous circumstance.

He is ripe with the glorious heat from the boy's family. Fog no longer heeds his vision. He stretches, feeling the muscles dance in his body.

His.

For the first time in human form a faint smile casts upon his mutilated lips. "Mine," he says and breathes in the cold morning air.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for your get well wishes! These last two weeks have been trying to say the least.  
I can't tell you how sorry I am that I didn't update. It ate at me every minute of every day as I struggled to edit this with a fog-riddled brain.  
This is the last chapter though you can expect an epilogue of sorts.

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 **EIDOLON**

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 **6**

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Aro pushes the stable doors aside. A blustering heat envelopes his bare face and neck. His jaw is lax. His eyes are wide. A torrent of flames devours the white manor and gray smoke swells from every crevice as it burns with ferocity, as though lit by Satan, himself. For a single moment, Aro considers this a dream as he touches his fingertips to his forehead and chest, whispering a terse prayer as he stands between the stable doors. Timber and an aberrant, sharp odor seize his breath. He coughs, and it's then Aro knows this world is certain and lasting. Days prior he helped paint varnish on the wooden floors. He coughed the entire time. He smells it now as it fills the early morning with stink.

His feet and legs are cold as he sprints toward the front of the house while his arms and face remain flush. "Master Carlisle!" He coughs until his chest aches then he's gasping for fresh air as he rounds the corner to the front lawn. "Master Carlisle! Master Jasper!"

With every second the flame grows wilder. The blaze eats away at the structure, blackening the once-white exterior. He turns away, burying his nose in the crook of his arm. His gaze falls on the body in the grass and he widens with recognition. "Master Carlisle!"

The rising inferno roars against the black sky. It's a ferocity Aro's never heard or seen before. It burns so hot and close he looks back at the house once to ensure he won't catch fire.

When he sees Carlisle's face, he covers his mouth and searches the stretch of grass around the property, a new fear pulsing through his limbs. He expects to see the aggressor running for the cover of trees, but there's only the warm glow from the havoc next to him with nothing in between.

What or whoever has butchered Master Carlisle has escaped, leaving no evidence behind. Aro stands over him, pondering the torn skin and exposed meat. He glances toward the city through the dense cluster of trees and brush. Darkness pervades. No lanterns are approaching. No people stand to observe the destruction, but they won't ignore the large blaze at the plantation on the hill. They won't ignore the obvious, murderous signs left upon Carlisle's body in front of his ode to wealth and vanity that burns, now, with hatred. They won't ignore Aro if he remains there. They will come with their questions and unsatisfied slants. Those people, who always seem to sneer at him when he passes them on the street, will suspect him. They won't think twice. They will cry and call him a murderer, a jealous pauper!

A tremble sets through his bones, having nothing to do with the cold. The blaze stretches along the front porch where Master Jasper waited for his horse countless times in the sun or rain. It's where Master Emmett stumbled up the stairs from a night of gambling, and where Carlisle Cullen welcomed patrons at his door and offered whiskey for their enjoyment. It's where young Edward would sit and write in his journal on hot days, observing the world around him, yet never participated.

At no time did Jasper nor Emmett offer praise to Aro for his good service. Carlisle kept his superior Irish prize to himself and those he thought honorable, never asking Aro if he'd enjoy a glass.

Does he hate them? He's not sure, but as he stares down at Carlisle a final time, Aro thought of the blonde man and his tenacious, closefisted quest for coin. He was a right bastard and an unrefuted drunk whose interests dwelled on the payment of others for his goods and services, no matter the cost. Perhaps, Aro thinks, he deserves this death.

He returns to the cold room he keeps in the stables, dressing warmly to suit the weather, then saddles Jasper's stallion, the faster, more reliable horse. He packs provisions in his bag which will help him along his way, as well as letters from his family in Italy, and his journal. He will write to tell them his debt is paid and his search for work in a large city has begun.

Before he finds himself on the back of the horse, he rushes to open the stall doors for the mares inside. They linger momentarily then emerge from the stables and pitch their heads and bodies from the heat. Aro regards them from the back of his chosen mount as they find their way across the threads of the tilled field harboring Spring's harvest. Bordering the patch meant for crops stands the Native women under the awning of their quarters drawn from slumber.

His stare finds a girl they call Sooleawah. She leans on a weathered column, holding a white and brown blanket around her shoulders. Her hair is undone and hangs down her back. In this ocher glow, he can see why young Edward favored looking at her above all others.

Aro remembers the attention Edward showed when she arrived last summer on the back of Carlisle's stock cart. Tears wet her cheeks and turned her face sour, and even through such turmoil Edward watched as she unloaded. His eyes dilated and his languor attitude toward the plantation's goings-on thawed, as though she had bewitched him without meaning.

The steed under Aro jolts and rears, but he holds himself fast and Sooleawah adjusts her eyes to the slight commotion. Her brow furrows as she studies him, and in that wash of bittersweet he believes her lips turn up slightly, smiling at him for the first time.

He doesn't look back when he spurs the horse from the manor.

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His mortal body rejects the amassment of blood. He is bent over in the weave of brush, spilling it until he's empty then wiping away the plump curds of life staining his cheeks. He will not kill again for a day, or perhaps when the sun dies and the cold resumes. For now he sits with his back to a tree, wiping a palm over his mouth and staring at his fingers. His soul is on its throne, and within this dominion he can inhale the air, move with purpose, and speak with breath, but he wonders if the gray skin will ever turn, or if he'll remain this way. He rises, feeling at home in this weave of ancient trees and thicket, hearing a hard rhythm in his head not unlike the call of blood from the boy's kinship. He can still smell the burn of the manor in his nostrils, and the scorch of human flesh faintly under.

He walks the web of broken limbs and twisting vines, his bare feet striking the foliage beneath him as he distances himself from where he began. He starts to climb and jump over impediments in his path, using his legs as he'd seen humans do. And when he finds a suitable balance he jumps distances mortals only dream. The pattern of booms in his head become louder as the dawn turns rose. It pulls, intices, creates such curiosity he can no longer ignore it. An urgency beckons him, a narrowing collision of Earth, blood, and voices. It spans across the entirety of the woods and after sweeping the expanse for what seems an ample period of time the scent of humans fills him once again. He follows it to a bundle of Earth-drawn structures.

A bonfire flickers amidst an assembly of voices rising into the birth of morning, calling for protection against all harm which may come from moonlight. A new pulse accumulates within, a hammering which thrums inside his cavity. The voices fill in the soft pauses between. He catches glimpses of them as he wanders closer. Animal pelts and furs envelope their bodies from the cold. Their feet are wrapped by thick layers of the same hide.

"Spirit of dark and stone!" a wavering voice chants. "We call you to us while keeping the light in our hearts!"

He approaches, his fingers bracing on the trees as he nears them. His chin is high as to catch the scents which come from their tree-lain hamlet. He flinches at the odor of herbs most ungood, and he ingests their fear, their anxiety, their anxious call for protection from him while inviting him forth. He listens to the chant, and he recognizes the voice slipping through the barriers between this world and beyond, waking him from his due rest. He knows the likes of these humans. They once dedicated prayers to him, but it's been years.

Through the trees, he can discern a figure impaling a long, wooden spear into a motionless, tawny bird. Its broad wings are open, and its curved beak are embracing the sky. The Spirit watches as the long-haired man then places the bloodied tip in the fire. Words find their way to the air, the drums catching the rhythm as they sing. As he observes, he continues to step forward. The man removes the tip caught in flame, and he nears the Spirit's place at the edge of the trees. He propels the lit peak into the air then motions to the four corners of the world in a fluid movement before impaling the spike into the ground.

The Spirit can feel the spark as the wood bridges the sky and earth. A means to an end creeps through his stomach, and he folds his forearms into his torso, bending over and gasping.

He can smell the blood of the bird, and taste the burning wood before it's extinguished in the dirt, extended by the man as he creates a narrow trench through the thick muck separating the mass of chanters from the forest.

The prayer continues. The drums are struck with fervor, and the old man calls to the Great Spirit again asking for protection from the one who comes in shadow. "We give no land for your feet to fall! Great Spirit, keep the shade from this ground!"

The drums and chanting cease.

He emerges from the persuasive coercion. They stare at him now through the coal streaking their skin, their eyes regarding his every move.

He eyes the leader of the prayer and speaks in the language they understand. His voice is harsh, guttural. It cracks through words and they feel empty at first, but as he continues to speak it swells and smoothes like water. "I heard your voice before. It came with a cold wind." His gaze drifts to the line in the dirt as he approaches. It seems an insignificant barrier to guard them, but a vibration pushes on his new skin, crawls around his breath as though he'll uproot from this new body. He stops, unable to go further. An appeased Spirit has cast out this traversing eidolon, and at this his blood-stained face turns hard. "During a slumber you called me forth. Now you call on me once more?"

"Yes, Shadow Spirit." A chill blew across the swaying flare, sending the adornment of feathers on the man's head sideways in the breeze, ferrying his sharp scent in the Spirit's direction. "You carry a burden in the world beyond, an ill sight. My ancestors bestowed upon you great sacrifices of lineage and fire..."

"I know of your origin, and I know of mine. Do not arouse my ire, Prayermaker. Speak with reason or my patience dies."

The man pauses for a moment, his exalted voice and body stance waver in uniform to the fire beside him. "Spirit of Shadow, I have called upon you to ask a blessing for my people."

He stares at him, eyes narrowing. "What do you ask of me, mortal? Have you called me to take this boy's flesh? Is this your great sacrifice of kinship? If so I have taken his blood, ended the line of his father. This price is great, for it didn't belong to you."

"Their death is of little consequence. The white man with yellow hair saw to place us in chains. They hold our daughters, rape them, murder them. Their greed is eternal. Their evil is long and dark. They point a finger at my people when they can not explain shameful acts within their colony. We ask you to turn their bodies cold, the white invaders. Kill those who come for our blood. Leave our people in peace, Spirit. Do this and no man will order you from this realm."

Green eyes sweep through the crowd before him, and when he grazes their skin he feels as though he harrows the very soul inhabiting their flesh. "You are not pure. You are not gentle. You are not selfless. You are not without ruin. This blessing you ask is grim and woeful. "

"We have not appeased you, Spirit?"

He considers this and lifts his palms. The skin is peeling at his fingertips from the fire not too long past. A mistake he believed at the time to be a curse until a siren called him from that cage. What a confusing jolt of senses!

But the body! The fresh air upon his skin, the scent of the world bestows upon him the greatest freedom. And how startling and grand and horrible it felt to maneuver inside a pre-existing life, to push it asunder and take it for himself. He understood yet questioned the complexities of breath when he formed to the flesh, and his untold curiosities could penetrate all he's wanted to know about these creatures from afar, from another time and life.

He can experience it all within this boy. He can move among them, be one of them, live for as long as the body will allow. His duration isn't assured and compared to eternity it will seem a mere speck. But can the worth be so great as to accept such a misbegotten sacrifice? Could it be so paramount to warrant death, and for how long? The taste of blood still lingers on his tongue and between his tame, flat teeth. He's reminded of the carnage, and perhaps it isn't vile to meet evil with beastly acts. He'd done so to acquire this boy's body when it summoned him from the deepest dark, a boy who upon impact was ailing, already frail with drought and misery, though his brief existence lends possibilities to this design.

He considers all this. "This endowment you have given is, indeed, a great favor." He blinks at the versed man. "You have my blessing," the Spirit says and he backs to the edge of the forest, shifting as if to walk into the entanglement.

"Thank you, Spirit," the man says.

He turns, the fierce gaze of a monster hiding inside the young man's striking features. "No longer will I answer to such a nameless utterance. I am flesh, as you."

"What do we call you, merciful specter?"

He is still for a moment, his black pupils widening then eclipsing with esteem. "Edward," he says. "I am Edward."


End file.
